


True to the Essence (Not to the Word)

by moorehawke



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Constantine's grungy apartment, I had to google LA suburbs for this, Mentions of Starvation, greasy thai food, i guess you could say this is Gabriel/Constantine if you squint?, i'm all about that gritty realism, some mentions of blood but nothing too dramatic, yeah this is one of those gritty realistic ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 08:57:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12745125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moorehawke/pseuds/moorehawke
Summary: “What? No, I don’t need your help,” Gabriel protested, trying to pull his arm away. “Let go of me!”“You look about two days away from starving.” Constantine said, ignoring him. “Let me guess; human life not quite as easy as you thought?”“The Lord works his hand in challenge as well as in fortune.” Gabriel muttered petulantly.“Yeah, I figured you’d say something like that.”((i watched constantine for the first time ever last week and my brain wouldn't let me rest until i'd gotten this out of my system))





	True to the Essence (Not to the Word)

It took Gabriel almost a week to realise that the stabbing pain in his stomach was _hunger,_ and not the loss of his grace. By that point, he wasn’t much more than skin and bones - the wiry power of his angelic form had given way to a weak and inefficient human body that burnt through energy faster than he could take it in from the aether.

 

It certainly didn’t help that drinking the energy of the cosmos felt like consuming fire and brimstone now. Nor that the stumps of what were once his wings - his beautiful, ethereal, _powerful_ wings - were sapping all his strength trying to heal themselves. Joints were replaced by scar tissue and feathers by phantom pains that dragged like lightning at his spine. All that raw energy rendered down to flesh and bone like he wasn’t so much more than that, like the connection between him and his wings was nothing but a joint in his shoulder, now fused.

 

People wouldn’t make eye contact with him as he stumbled down main roads. When he asked for money - he seemed to remember humans _needing_ money, though wanting it was most definitely a sin - they turned their gazes away. Gabriel could understand it. He was not worthy, just as they were not worthy in the eyes of the Lord.

 

Just as he was not worthy in the eyes of his father.

 

Sleep came, impossibly, and Gabriel had his first dream, a swirl and a scream of charcoal and fire so hot it was almost ice. He woke up panting, still somehow shocked by the foreignness that was pain, and resolved himself not to sleep again. Easier said than done, but he ran himself raw with exhaustion and a determination that still befitted a higher, or at least more stubborn, being.

 

And then, after eight days of stumbling through streets, feet bare, each step like a knife, he collapsed onto the hard concrete and did not get up.

 

-

 

It figures it’d be Constantine who found him curled up on the footpath. He wasn’t asleep, not quite, but in some sort of space between sleeping and waking, trying desperately to ward off another dream. A light stabbed into his eyes, and he winced, before it was replaced by John’s face above him.

 

“God, Gabriel, is that you?” He said. Gabriel decided not to respond - the ugly juts of bone sticking up between the bandages on his chest should have been more than enough of a clue, and honestly he just wanted Constantine to _go away_ and let him suffer in peace. Who knew, perhaps with enough suffering he could return to the favoured side of his father.

 

He almost chuckled at that.

 

But nevertheless he quickly found himself hauled up by his arm, and he flailed to get his feet under him. _Needing_ feet to support him, now wasn’t that pathetic? Constantine was still pulling at him, dragging him up the street at a hurried pace. Almost out of spite, Gabriel pulled back.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked, but it came out more as a croak from his parched throat.

 

Constantine huffed. “Being a good Samaritan,” he said.

 

“What? No, I don’t need your help,” Gabriel protested, trying to pull his arm away. “Let go of me!”

 

“You look about two days away from starving.” Constantine said, ignoring him. “Let me guess; human life not quite as easy as you thought?”

 

“The Lord works his hand in challenge as well as in fortune.” Gabriel muttered petulantly.

 

“Yeah, I figured you’d say something like that.”

 

-

 

Constantine’s apartment was, unsurprisingly, filthy. Gabriel had never been here before; not because of the wards, which frankly were pitiful, but simply because he’d had no interest to.

 

He still had no interest in this shithole, frankly. There was half a pint of rotten milk on the kitchen counter.

 

John threw his coat onto the worn-out sofa and poured himself a glass of whiskey before he made his way to the fridge. Gabriel watched him go silently. If he’d still had wings, they’d be curled around him, but he settled with shivering in the cold instead.

 

“We’re out of bread,” Constantine announced flatly. “And meat.” He picked up the off-yellow bottle from the counter, sniffed it, and set it down again quickly. “And milk. You okay with takeout?”

 

Gabriel tried to pull off a noncommittal shrug, but his ravenous stomach betrayed him with an embarrassingly loud growl. “…takeout’s fine.” He said. In truth he’d never had takeout before; never eaten or drunk anything, actually, except the mouthfuls of water he’d accidentally swallowed back at the pool at Ravenscar. Angels, even half-breed angels, were gifted their energy by the Lord. Taking anything beyond that would be giving into temptation.

 

A rat-bitten - genuinely _rat-bitten_ takeout menu told them that for only $14.99 they could get enough thai curry for two people, plus a can of soda. Rice, apparently, cost extra. Gabriel had no idea if this was a reasonable price, but going by John’s muttering, it didn’t seem so.

 

Thai arrived hot and greasy and Constantine didn’t tip the kid who delivered it. Gabriel frowned, but said nothing. _Some good Samaritan,_ he thought. _This is no way to stay in His good books._ But then halfway down the hall, John paused, turned, grabbed a dollar bill out of his pocket and raced back to the front door, almost throwing the crumpled paper at the kid. Ah. So he was learning.

 

The food was… exquisite. Incredible. Gabriel would almost have called it ‘heavenly’ if the irony of that statement weren’t so strong. Of course, he did his best to hide this from John, instead giving his best act of disdainful contempt as he picked through the rice he’d rather have devoured in a couple of bites.

 

After a couple of minutes of this, John sighed. “For fuck’s sake, Gabe, just eat already. I can tell you want to.”

 

Fuck.

 

Well, nothing for it now. Gabriel shrugged and dug into his meal with abandon, finishing the last of it in only a few mouthfuls. It wasn’t nearly enough, but he set his bowl down anyway and leaned back into the worn sofa.

 

“You’re getting blood on my coat.” Constantine pointed out. Gabriel turned his head to see that one of the jagged stumps of his wings was smearing congealed blood onto John’s coat, which was draped over the sofa back behind him. He realised, though, that he didn’t really care.

 

“You’re filthy, Gabriel.” Constantine said. “You need a shower, or I’m not kidding, that’s gonna get infected.”

 

“So what?” Gabriel asked. “Not like this dumb shard of bone is any use to me anyway.”

 

“No,” Constantine canted his head, “but the septicaemia might kill you, and I’m guessing you don’t want to end up _down there_.”

 

Gabriel scowled. He had a point. Losing the odd body part or two was fine, but he didn’t want to die just yet. Not while there was still a chance he could earn his father’s trust again. With a heave, he lifted himself off the sofa.

 

“Can I use your shower?” He asked with gritted teeth.

 

-

 

Angels didn’t really tend to need to bathe, what with the whole ethereal nature thing, and Gabriel had always hated getting his feathers wet. The initial cold blast of the water knocked the breath out of him for a second before shifting to a scalding hot that had him frantically turning the knobs in the wall. It eventually settled on something warm, hot enough that blotchy red patches emerged on the pale skin of his chest, but not enough to cause pain.

 

Soap was new. Odd, to suddenly smell like something distinct, after millennia without any sort of natural scent beyond ‘electricity’. Gabriel wasn’t sure he liked it. But smelling like Constantine’s off-brand body wash was better than reeking of sweat and grime. He stared at his feet on the tiles of the shower floor, the dust and filth that washed off him in waves adding to the grey-and-brown coating that infected the cracked, off-white tiles.

 

Gabriel really had to hand it to Constantine; even his _bathroom_ looked like it smoked a pack a day.

 

He switched the water off when it started to run cold and dried off with a ratty towel tossed over the edge of the bathtub. Looking in the mirror, he noticed something odd; without the dirt and coating it and turning it a dark brown colour, his hair was developing streaks of red that ran intermittently through his curls. He tugged at one by his face experimentally.

 

Red. A witch’s colour.

 

He wondered who had decided that.

 

-

 

Constantine really wasn’t sure what to think.

 

This was Gabriel, the guy who’d almost started the apocalypse, who’d _killed Chas_ , and here he was, being _nice_ to him? Giving him food and a shower and goddamn if he wasn’t searching for a change of clothes right now. Fuck, he owned some awful shirts.

 

He ended up picking out a pair of grey track pants and a t-shirt he hadn’t worn in about ten years with “Fuck Bitches, Get Money” written on the front in block lettering. Not one of his proudest moments. And it probably wouldn’t be one of Gabriel’s either, he thought with a vaguely vindictive grin.

 

Right on cue, Gabriel wandered in with John’s bath towel tied low over his hips and the bandaged singlet from before already halfway over his head. “Nope,” Constantine announced. “That thing is disgusting. Put these on.” He threw the shirt and pants at Gabriel, who appraised them, nodded, and went back into the bathroom.

 

Two minutes later he was back out and Constantine had to hold himself back from laughing at the sight of it. He never thought he’d see Gabriel in anything other than a suit or that godawful white getup, but here he was, with “Fuck Bitches” written in bold over his chest like his own personal slogan. The shirt jutted awkwardly out over the remnants of his wings, and the pants were tied as tight as they would go around his skinny waist. Even clean, dry, and clothed, Gabriel looked like death warmed over.

 

“Very funny.” Gabriel deadpanned. Then, though he took pains to fight it off, a yawn escaped him. He shook his head almost violently and pinched his arm.

 

“You should get some rest,” John said. Without the coating of dirt on his face, the bruised circles under Gabriel’s eyes stood out more than ever.

 

Gabriel shook his head again. “No!” He said forcefully, and John was taken aback. A second later he seemed to realise what he’d done and his eyes widened a bit. “Ah, I mean… no. I’d rather not.” He said.

 

“Sleep isn’t optional for a human, Gabriel.”

 

Gabriel jutted his chin out defiantly, which would have been very effective if he’d looked like anything other than a literal walking skeleton. “I don’t care.”

 

Constantine got the feeling that arguing the point further wouldn’t yield much success. Instead, he leaned down to swipe the empty takeaway containers off the coffee table and dump them in the trash before dropping himself back onto the sofa, TV remote in hand. “Okay then. Well, I’m gonna watch some TV. You can join me if you want.” He pressed a button and the screen blurred into life with the late night news headlines; a murder in Santa Monica, a mass shooting in Irvine… someone had offed themselves in the CBD this morning too. Constantine changed the channel, surfing until he found some inane game show, and put his feet up on the table, waiting for his gambit to pay off. _Three, two, one…_

 

The sofa sank gently under Gabriel’s weight as the angel - or not-angel - curled up at the other end, feet tucked loosely underneath him. His eyes were watching the screen, but Constantine could tell he was fighting to stay awake. Ten minutes in, he curled and arm over the armrest and lay his head on it before jerking back upright, pinching his arm violently enough that John could see a bruise start to form. This happened once, twice, three times, and then finally, almost as if out of frustration, Gabriel’s body gave out and he fainted, head falling back onto the armrest. He didn’t get up again.

 

Well, that was one way to do it.

 

John turned the TV volume down and got up off the sofa. He shivered, suddenly realising how cold it was, and reached for the thermostat before remembering the heating was still shot. _Damn._ He grabbed his coat off the sofa back, but paused when he saw Gabriel, still asleep, start to shiver. He rolled his eyes, but, treacherously, they came to rest on his coat.

 

“Swear to fuck,” he muttered, frustrated with himself. He shouldn’t be doing this. But still he took the time to drape the coat carefully over Gabriel, whose shivering slowly subsided.

 

He shook his head. He had a murderous, egotistical fallen angel in his house and here he was making sure he didn’t get a cold. He checked the time on the radio in the kitchen. 2:00am. He looked back at Gabriel’s sleeping form and, just for a second, caught the echo of a wing curled around him like a wisp of silver fog, flickering in the orange glow of the streetlights from outside.

 

Constantine went to bed.


End file.
